


Dial "0" for Operator

by phnelt



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Helen Wick backstory, Misses Clause Challenge, Worldbuilding, pre-John Wick films
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21875968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phnelt/pseuds/phnelt
Summary: This would be her first gift to him.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Comments: 16
Kudos: 52
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Dial "0" for Operator

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios/gifts).



It’s just after her shift and Helen was so tired she almost forgot to change out of her uniform before she left. That would have been an issue firstly because she’s the one who made the rule that none of the Operators could appear on the street in their work clothes. It was just good safety. The penalties for hurting an Operator were severe, but deterrence only goes so far. There’s always someone out there pushed too hard or cocky enough to think they’d get away with it. 

Secondly, while the rockabilly look promoted unity and sense of purpose, but it wasn’t Helen’s style. 

Her work in administration had given her the opportunity to afford a lot of things, and one of them was the right to be choosy about what she wore, to think about what pleased her and no one else. And so on her own time she favoured modern lines -- exquisite fabrics in creams and greys and blacks. When she was at work Helen was sharp edges, when she was outside, she flowed. Her favourite piece was her camel hair overcoat which she wrapped around herself before she stepped into the night. 

Listening to her body, she decided to stop at one of her favourite restaurants for dinner. They knew her there, not for anything she’s done but just as a person who comes in enough, doesn’t make a scene, and tips reasonably well. It made her think about all the different ways people see each other -- not as whole persons but as versions of themselves drawn from a moment or a situation. That’s part of what she loved about photography, the capturing of a slice of what’s there, a perfect sample of the DNA of a thing, mounted on a slide to be examined. 

She’s just slid off her coat and selected a Riesling -- German style, not French, the French was too sweet -- when none other than John Wick walked in. 

She watched him chat with the hostess from under her eyelashes. He didn’t know her but she knew of him. She’d taken his calls, reported his contracts, put together dossiers. He was just so _competent._ And Helen admired that. He looked a little out of place but he moved with such utter control of his body that it gave him a confidence that made it seem inconceivable to deny him. She wanted to capture that on film. Sure enough, the hostess directed him to a place at the bar, just one hop down from where Helen was sitting. 

He saw her looking and angled his head at her. She smiled back, reflexive, and turned to her wine. She pulled out her iPad, deciding to make some progress in the book she was reading but kept half an ear open to the noise around her. Well, more honestly, to John Wick’s corner of the bar. 

He was asking questions about the menu and she found herself weighing in, surprising no one more than herself. “The lamb with black garlic chimichurri is a particular specialty of the chef.” 

The waiter, Marco, looked absolutely gobsmacked, so maybe she surprised him more. She supposed that was fair, when she came here she never talked to anyone and had dispatched several men with a single glare. It was a glare that said ‘I know where the bodies are buried,’ which was just a statement of fact. 

John Wick had a puzzled look on his face, like he was trying to place her, but he just thanked her for her recommendation. 

They ended up chatting, talking about books, mostly. He tried to sell her on the idea that ebooks could never replace the experience of a physical book, but Helen thought that was the point -- now she didn’t have to carry twenty pounds in books every time she went somewhere. 

For her part, she watched him eat. He had the same deliberation in how he handled a knife and fork that she’d seen him use with a gun, all careful angles and deliberate application of force. 

Eventually she finished her meal and it was time to go, but still, it was a nice evening. 

*** 

Next time she was working the phones, John Wick called. She gave the standard greeting and she heard him pause, just for a second, before putting in his request for a cleaner. Sounded like it was a successful job, then. She sent the cleaner and she flagged his contract for expedited processing. 

It was strange, she kept her lives so separate. There was Helen the Operator, Helen the photographer, Helen the citizen of New York. And she kept her past most separate of all. She didn’t even _know_ John, she knew the shape of his actions from the paths they left in the world, but she knew better than to think those were the same thing -- they were just like photographs, a part of reality, not the whole thing. 

_But I could know him,_ she thought. It sent a thrill down her spine. 

*** 

She knew it was foolish, but she still made her way to the same restaurant, sat down in the same space. She went for a red this time, full bodied. 

He would either come, or he wouldn’t. 

So she sipped her wine and continued reading Amy Harmon’s writing about how people with the same rare genetic conditions were using their new diagnoses to find each other. Helen was struck by the idea of being more related to someone because of something that was aberrant than by any blood connection. 

_"I want someone to say ‘I know what you mean,’" Ms. Dopp told her husband, "and really mean it."_

Helen wondered which would be worse, never finding that person, or finding them and it still not being enough. 

That’s when John walked in. She nodded at him, suddenly unsure of where to put her hands. He nodded back and came to sit next to her. 

“I asked Winston about you,” he said. 

“And what did he say?” Helen could guess. 

“Absolutely nothing.” He sounded slightly consternated, he probably wasn’t used to not getting the information he wanted. 

She took a little pity on him and explained, “There’s always someone who thinks they can take a shortcut to getting what they want. Anonymity helps me make sure that it’s not going to be through my girls.” 

He thought that one over for a second. “But you told me.” He leaned in, hair swaying slightly. 

She shifted a little, uncomfortably. She herself didn’t fully understand why she’d done it. She could pretend she hadn’t, that he’d pieced it together, but that was a technicality. 

Her mouth was dry and she didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. 

He leaned back, not pressing and she let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. 

“So if you’re the boss,” he began, “why are you answering the phone?” 

This she did have an answer for. “Bad leaders don’t know how to do the work. I keep my hand in, just a little, with a shift every week.” 

He was staring into her eyes. “So if I called back next week…” 

“An Operator would be pleased to assist you.” 

*** 

They fell into a rhythm. She didn’t know how he managed it, but every Wednesday he always had a reason to call. It was never frivolous, always something that was well within her job description to do. Sometimes it was for a cleaner, sometimes for other services, sometimes to report on an anonymous contract. And every week they’d meet for dinner and talk. 

Not about work, never after the first time. They’d talk about exhibits at the Met and how bad the L train was. They talked about their favourite places to eat and that was how Helen learned John had a massive sweet tooth. 

They decided to extend the evening with a walk to a fantastic patisserie. Along the way they walked past a bodega and Helen could see the bodega cat was perfectly stretched along the doorway, all of its paws reaching to touch the jamb. Customers were carefully stepping over it; its tail twitched any time someone put their foot down a little too close to its fur. 

Her fingers twitched towards her bag with its camera inside. 

John was watching her. “What are you reaching for?” 

Of course he noticed. “My camera, I take pictures.” 

“Can I see them?” 

She chewed the inside of her cheek, considering. “I’ve got a gallery show in a couple of weeks, you can be my guest.” 

“I’d like that.” 

She scrutinised his face, he seemed earnest. He always seemed genuine and she supposed he had no reason to hide. No one was a threat to him, after all. 

They’d stopped moving. 

“Aren’t you going to take the picture?” 

She laughed. But then she took her camera out and did it anyway. 

*** 

The phone rang. Helen carefully adjusted her headset before she connected the circuit. 

“Operator, how can I assist you?” 

“Helen…” John trailed off and she heard him grunt in pain. He was calling her by name, that was a bad sign, a really bad one. He had been scrupulously correct in all of their professional exchanges up til now. 

More urgently, she asked, “How can I assist you?” 

Her fingers were already clacking on her keyboard, pulling up his file. Whose contract was he on? Nothing she could find, so that meant he was working for the Russians. 

She could hear him breathing, he was still on the line. 

“Tell me where you are.” She could feel some heads turn towards her but she didn’t care. 

He grunted out an address which she messaged to the Doctor who was already en route. He owed her for that one time she let him process a payment delayed -- she knew he was good for it, but either way she knew he would do his best for John. 

She didn’t rush out dramatically onto the street. She allowed herself one moment to smooth her hands down her cardigan to straighten the hem against the waist of her skirt, pulling everything back into alignment, and then she went back to work. Nothing would change the facts: John was hurt, maybe he was dying. People died around her every day, often deaths she brought to their door. She dealt in death, she recorded it carefully in her ledgers, she licked death off her fingers when she turned a page. 

Still, when she saw Winston appear in the doorway at the end of her shift, she felt her eyes flutter closed, the darkness behind her lids a bulwark against the news that he was bringing in on raven wings. 

She stood, walked towards him, and he melted back, drawing her into the break room. A flick of her eyes and Shoshanna and Sondra stood up and cleared out, coffees unfinished. 

Helen turned to him. 

“John’s alive. It was a graze, but the knife was poisoned.” 

She didn’t react, feeling the way Winston’s eyes bore into her. He didn’t reach out, but he somehow gave the impression of putting his hand on top of hers. She felt the corner of her eyes crinkle. The rules were clear: anyone who put a hand on one of her girls without permission faced immediate excommunication. It pleased her to see him following the rules, an acknowledgement that she hadn’t gone soft. 

“Johnathan is talented,” he began, a banality. He relied on his affect to make his words sound portentous. Of course John was talented. “But there’s only one you, Helen. You’re the backbone of this place, it rises on your shoulders.” 

She straightened and he nodded. Winston may speak in declarations of the obvious, but he never made her respond in kind. He simply walked out. 

She went home. 

*** 

Friday night, she went to his house. The address was in his file. The information was available to her, even if she wasn’t entitled to it. 

He opened the door a crack; she made sure he could see her clearly, see that she was alone. 

The door closed and she heard the chain scrape. 

He opened the door all the way and waved her in. Before she was fully inside he asked, “Are you alright?” His voice was gravelly, worn down like his body. 

She laughed; she couldn’t help it. She cut herself off when she realised it was coming out a little more hysterical than she generally preferred. 

“I can’t take your calls, anymore.” 

“I understand.” 

She peered at him. “Do you?” 

He took in a breath to say something, but words were so unnecessary. 

Telegraphing her moves, she stepped in close to him, went up on her toes. His eyes were fixed on her, roving over her face. 

She nodded and kept nodding as she brought their mouths together. 

He’d waited for her to come to him, but as soon as their mouths connected, he was fire. His mouth seared hers. His fingers found her coat buttons and slid it off her shoulders. He grabbed her arms, pulling their bodies flush together and she could feel the heat of him through his thin cotton shirt. 

She wound her hands in his hair, sealing them together. 

His hands were roaming, tracing paths down her back, leaving her shivering every place his hands weren’t. 

He got his hands under her thighs and lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist. 

He hissed, breaking their kiss. 

She braced her hands on his shoulders, looking down at him. “Careful,” she said, reaching a hand up to brush the hair out of his face. “Careful.” His eyes fluttered closed. 

*** 

Later, in bed, he was tracing the shape of her tattoos with the tips of his fingers. They told the story of her life for anyone who could read them. 

He was getting more tense with every moment and she finally whispered, “What is it? Just say it.” 

“Does it bother you?” 

She turned her head to look at his face, confused. 

He continued. “The violence.” 

She shook her head. “The world is violence, everything we do just puts a veneer on it to somehow make it acceptable. Unlike the world above, at least we acknowledge that the violence is real.” Helen realised she’d never said this out loud, though she had a long time to think about it. 

“And that’s enough?” 

“It keeps me safe.” _Me and mine._

His fingers found their way to her scars. “Are they out there?” 

She didn’t have to ask what she meant. “Those contracts were the first thing I bought with the money I saved at this job.” 

He sat with that for a moment. “Did they suffer?” 

She shook her head. “That’s not what I needed.” 

“What did you need?” 

“I told you.” She’d needed to know they weren’t out there anymore, that no one had to worry about them. She didn’t need their pain. 

He nodded. 

*** 

In the morning she scrambled an egg while he worked magic with the Breville, producing two perfect cups of espresso. 

John opened a window to let in some fresh New York air and they sipped their coffee, smiling at each other. 

“Can I walk you in?” 

She shook her head. No outsiders were allowed in Administration, he knew that. 

“No, but you can take me to my gallery opening Saturday.” 

“How will I find you?” His smile was quirking higher on the left. 

She passed over a slip of paper. They’d done everything backwards, first sharing secrets then sharing numbers. 

*** 

Helen got into work and she knew she was smiling because everyone was looking at her. She didn’t care. 

She saw that Shoshanna was back after being out sick for two days. One more day and Helen would have swung by with some matzo ball soup. Shoshanna was the only one not trying to hide a smile behind a cup or piece of paper. In fact, she had her head down. Odd. 

Helen walked up to her desk and waited. When Shoshanna didn’t look up, she called her name, gently. 

Shoshanna knew better than not to acknowledge her. When she looked up, Helen took in a sharp breath at what Shoshanna looked like. Underneath her regulation victory rolls she had a split lip, paired with an expertly hidden black eye. 

“Please don’t,” Shoshanna said. “He didn’t mean to.” 

“Yes, he did.” Helen didn’t know his name, but that was a trifle. The man’s life was forfeit. 

“Please.” 

Helen shook her head. “It’ll be harder on him if you warn him.” 

Shoshanna’s eyes filled with tears. 

Helen looked at her sympathetically. “Go freshen up in the powder room, you’re on filing today.” Filing was a chance to be alone and not have to talk to anyone. 

Shoshanna glared at her, dashing the water out of her eyes angrily. 

She’d either forgive Helen, or she’d quit, after all, the life wasn’t for everyone. 

*** 

A couple of hours later Helen got a text. 

_Quick or painful,_ it read. 

She smiled. It was always nice to hear from John. _Quick,_ she tapped back _._

It was going to be hard enough on Shoshanna. Helen was enforcing the rules, it didn’t need to be done viciously. She knew some people who wanted to ‘send a message,’ she’d processed enough of those contracts, but she’d never seen the point. Dead was dead, and anyone who crossed her knew there was no escape. In fact, it worked for her: _The Operator’s rules are simple,_ she heard Winston say to those foolish few who thought they could work the system against her, _if you cross them it’s your own damn fault._

_Did he know?_ John’s text came quickly on the heels of the last one. 

Helen paused. She wasn’t sure, and she wasn’t going to ask Shoshanna. It didn’t matter: he'd hit the wrong woman, and there would be consequences. She liked that it was John doing it. She could trust him to do it right, and to ask for anything, if he needed it. 

*** 

The last Friday of the quarter was the mandatory department heads meeting. It was mostly a time for everyone to justify where their budget was allocated, and so it always ran long. She checked her watch, this one was an hour over. 

Charon was trying to justify why the concierge department needed an expanded budget in the fourth quarter to provide the services his clients expected. He was technically part of the Continental, but anything that ran through her switchboard came under her budgetary discretion. 

“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” he asked, dry as a bone, eyebrow raised. 

She realised she’d checked her watch again. She wanted to see John. “Are you asking me a personal question?” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied. 

*** 

She’d barely toed off her shoes before John was ringing her buzzer. A minute later and he had her back against the door, skirt hiked up to her waist while he held her in place with one hand, driving her wild with his tongue pressed right where she burned the most. She could feel the tickle of his beard against her thighs and it only drove her higher. She hooked her thigh around his head to pull him in and keep him right. There. 

She only let him go so he could change for her gallery opening. 

When he came back, he looked fine in his suit, but it was missing something. 

“Come in,” she said. 

“You look beautiful.” 

She looked back at him over her shoulder, smirking. 

“Here,” she said, turning back and handing him a box. 

He took it from her, holding her hand for a second and kissing it quickly. The press of his lips sent warmth to her belly. 

“What’s this?” He opened the box. 

“It’s not a gun.” 

It was a tie. 

He loosened the tie he was wearing, pulling the end out from its knot. His movements were smooth, like everything he did, and she never got tired of watching him. She stepped in. He handed her gift over and she put it around his neck, doing it up efficiently. 

She smoothed it down and looked up. He was looking back at her and the look in his eyes made her heart skip a beat. 

“There,” she said, mouth dry. “Now we’re a set.” Her dress was burgundy, so was the tie. 

*** 

The gallery opening was a success. Her agent was gushing about how many pictures were finding buyers; apparently there was some sort of bidding war going on over a black and white one she'd taken of a half-eaten arugula salad. 

She snagged a champagne flute and wandered over to where John was staring at ‘Bodega Cat,’ the one they’d taken together. She accepted well-wishes from half a dozen acquaintances and critics. The show was crowded, almost double the crowd of her last one. 

“You like it?” 

He smiled at her. “I've already put in a bid, but your agent is very cagey.” 

Her shoulders shook with muffled giggles. 

He was staring at her and his expression turned serious. 

“Why do you like it? The photography.” 

“Are you asking me a personal question?” Her voice was teasing. 

“I suppose I am.” 

She stared at ‘Bodega Cat,’ trying to formulate an answer. How to explain? “Photography captures the moment, down to the quality of light.” But that wasn’t it. “But it’s not everything, it’s the composition that says something.” 

“You have control.” 

She hadn’t really thought of it that way. “I suppose that’s true.” She thought about it. “But that’s not all -- most of us talk past each other but a photo...it cuts through that. At work, we don’t have to talk much, have you noticed? We mostly use signs and symbols. We know what they mean. Photos are like that, a communication that goes past words.” 

Helen wasn’t that good with words; that was part of why she liked her camera. She knew she wasn’t explaining this well, how she hoped, on some level, that when someone bought a photograph they'd see the same thing as she had. That her photographs were like a little message in a bottle that someone else was picking up. 

John was looking at her, eyes on her face. She’d noticed that about him early on: his eyes never wandered when they were talking to each other, not to others around, not down her body. When he was with her, he was with her, but he never trespassed. 

“I understand,” he said. 

*** 

Shoshanna asked her to the coffee room on Monday. She was still at work so Helen took that to mean she accepted what had happened. Good for her. 

“I just wanted someone to love me,” she said, voice cracking. 

Helen pulled her into a hug. “I love you,” she said, fiercely. “I love all of you.” _You’re mine._

Shoshanna wept into Helen’s collar and Helen just held on. 

Eventually, she pulled back and wiped her eyes. Helen produced a handkerchief. 

“Ugh, embarrassing,” Shoshanna said, gesturing at her face. She laughed a little and Helen smiled at her. “What about you?” 

Helen startled. “What about me?” 

“You take care of us and none of us take care of you.” 

Involuntarily, Helen felt a grin grow on her face. “Uh,” she said, trying to quash it. 

Shoshanna’s face was shrewd. “Oh, I see.” 

Helen nudged her playfully with her elbow. 

Shoshanna gripped her hand. “It goes both ways. You ever need anything, you let us know.” 

Helen blinked at her. “I know,” she said. 

*** 

_Drinks at the Continental?_ Helen tapped out. 

_You want to be seen in public with me?_ The response was immediate. John mustn’t be working. 

Helen rolled her eyes. She knew why he was asking. She’d avoided every hint he’d left about walking her to work, or meeting her near work, or anything that would have put them in the same place in a professional context. She didn’t fool herself from thinking that they were unobserved, but she hadn’t wanted the scrutiny. 

She just responded with the time. 

Helen took a sip of her Boulevardier, closing her eyes to savour it. This was why she only ever drank wine when she was out -- no cocktail was as good as what she could get at the Continental bar. 

She opened her eyes to see John looking at her again. His eyes flicked down to her throat to watch it working, but then were back on hers as he asked, “Good?” 

“Try it,” she said, pushing her glass towards him. She watched him sip it, wincing a little, and laughed. He did like things to be sweeter. Over his shoulder she could see Winston staring at her. 

“Be right back", she muttered to John and made off in the direction of the restroom. On her way, she paused by Winston’s table. 

Pressing her hand down on it she said, “For me, there’s just John.” 

He nodded at her. 

*** 

After that, everyone knew they were a set. No one ever asked, but when she came to places, others would look around briefly to see where John was, which was usually just to her left. She liked it; she liked that when people looked at her they counted to two. 

“Are you ever going to take a picture of me?” John asked into her hair as she lined up a shot from her window. 

“I... may have, already,” she admitted. 

She took him into her darkroom to show him. There weren't too many but she had a few she hadn’t been able to resist developing. 

One was of him wrestling with an umbrella in the wind. She’d caught the moment when he’d switched from his default face to a full glare with his forehead wrinkled up. A few of him sleeping, mouth open and pressed against the pillow, hair spilling around his head like a tangle of kelp on the shoreline. 

John reached out to touch one but pulled his finger back before she could prompt him -- it was still drying. 

“I didn’t notice you taking them.” He tore himself away from the photograph to look at her. His eyes were wide and it made him look a little lost. 

She reached out to touch his face and he pressed his cheek against her hand, eyes falling closed. 

*** 

Charon smiled at John when he escorted her into the Continental lobby, one hand pressed against the small of her back. Helen nodded back at Charon and made a mental note not to hassle him so hard next time he wanted something exotic for his weapons order. 

John’s eyes cut towards him and then back to her. 

“I think people are being nicer to me,” he whispered. 

“Oh?” She asked, feigning disinterest. 

“I got a free drink last week.” 

“You respect them. They notice that, and they appreciate it.” 

“They didn’t notice me before.” 

“I guess you did something to grab their attention.” 

*** 

They carried on like that. They carried on until one day John came back from a mission, unscathed but shivering. She got him into the bath, wordlessly. It wasn’t until she was towelling his hair that he gripped her wrist, hard, and said, “I can’t do this anymore.” 

She paused. “Okay. What do you need?” 

He looked at her gratefully and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. His lips were cold. 

“What I need, I can’t get.” 

She pulled around to crouch in front of him. “What’s my job?” she asked. 

“You’re head of Operations.” 

“And what do I do? I get you what you need. So you don’t get to tell me what’s impossible: I tell you what can be done.” She spoke firmly, like she would anytime she had to support one of her employees. 

“I want to quit.” 

She let that reverberate in her head. To her knowledge, no one had ever left the world before. Not until now. She wished it surprised her. When she’d first met him, she’d thought he was like her: careerist, enmeshed in the world. But as she got to know him she realised he was like her in that other way. He wanted a life outside of the job, something separate and just for him. 

Helen saw it when they went to her gallery showings, the way he introduced himself as ‘Helen’s partner’ and glowed any time someone praised her work like it reflected on him. 

He hadn’t let go of her wrist, so she reached out with her other hand to draw circles on his knee with her thumb. 

“The rules are a veneer for the violence, remember? At the heart, it’s all personal, it’s about relationships. Can you think of something you could do, something you could give, that would let your employers save face if you left?” 

John’s eyes sparked and then went dull. “But he’d never let me get away.” The way he said it told Helen there was one man in particular, someone who held the keys above all the others who could make a claim to John’s time. He said it like a bad thing, like it was hopeless, but from Helen’s perspective this was good news; in order to move one man, they just needed one good lever. 

“You know why I do this job.” She squeezed his knee. 

“So you’ll be safe.” He relaxed his grip on her wrist and she felt her hand tingle as the blood rushed back in. He brushed his thumb against her pulse, soothing. 

“To keep me and mine safe,” she corrected. She was made to keep her people safe. That was her purpose. She started talking faster, willing the words to penetrate. “In the organisation, no one challenges me. Relationships, remember? As long as I’m alive, no one is going to come for you.” 

She felt his breathing slow and knew that he believed her. 

Her mind was already clicking between possibilities as she thought through what needed to be done. She’d already laid some of the groundwork without even trying. She’d tied John to her in such a way that everyone knew that an attack against John was an attack against her. She could do this. 

This would be her first gift to him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are loved!


End file.
